The Thing About Winners
by GoldenSilvers
Summary: Vikings have always been born to win, and the young Denmark and his two friends are no exception. So what's stopping Denmark this time?


Posted on Tumblr a few weeks ago, reposting here for convenience. Also posting here and on FFNet to let everyone know that Dreams in Dust is back in progress and a drabble series is underway :D

Enjoy!  
3 xoxo,  
TIA/Megu

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"So, what are we going to do with him now?"

"You tell me," said Norway with a sniff. He kicked a bit of dirt at their captive, who could only quiver his lip and sniffle in response. Norway may have been the short one, but he certainly had his ways of bossing people around. He made this quite clear when he smirked back at the victim and turned to face Sweden, acknowledging that he hadn't quite answered the taller boy's question.

"Rather, you should ask Denmark, _he's _the one that caught him. Again." Norway jabbed his thumb into the victim's arm for good measure until the victim cried out in pain. "But of course, he's too busy trying to make contact with a rock," Norway said with a sigh as he turned again to watch the third member of their party poke at said rock. The other two shook their heads in disappointment, knowing all too well how ridiculously superstitious the oldest of the trio could get. Norway never hesitated to comment on how embarrassing it was.

"I'll wait, then." Sweden decided, his shoulders barely slumping. "He gets a bit angry when you interrupt him."

"He could control it. Besides, I'm not going to babysit every single brat he drops at our feet."

Norway and Sweden looked at the 'brat,' even though he probably looked about the same age as Norway. Their captive teared up again before scrunching up his face and mouthing curses at Norway.

"Like I said, a brat." Norway quipped, squinting to get a better look at the young boy currently tied to the tree stump, "A brat with worms where his eyebrows should be."

"You don't have to be so mean to him," Sweden remarked and suppressed a small yawn.

"Says the one who flung rocks at him with a slingshot," came the dry response.

"I was getting into the heat of the moment." Sweden averted Norway's steel gaze and looked at the floor. "I really don't think you should be so—"

"Damn, turned out that last rock wasn't a sign after all." Denmark didn't even bother to hide his disappointment when he walked over to where his two friends were standing, his shoulders slightly slumped. "Anyway, sorry about that—"Denmark took a pause to look at the trio's messy haired victim, a wolf-like grin overcoming his previous failure.

"Now, should we get started then?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"Well, I'm asking _you,_" whined Denmark, stamping his foot into the ground.

"Well you _are _the 'king,'" said Norway. The usual hint of sarcasm never left the younger boy's tone.

"I know, bu—" Denmark began, when Norway quickly cut him off.

"Sweden's already tired, we always end up waiting for you, and quite frankly, I'm not in a mood to deal with it. Do what you have to do, but remember that we have stomachs to feed and our own people to take care of already. I'll be going now." Norway waved Denmark off with a flick of the hand and walked back towards their house with Sweden tagging along, leaving Denmark alone with a small, cloaked boy still squirming against the trunk.

The boy looked up at Denmark. He scrunched his nose. Licked the tears of his face. Blew raspberries. Spit in his face. Mentioned a few things about 'hell.'

His (now alone) captor remained unfazed. And what the hell was 'hell?' 'Hell' actually sounded kind of fun. Better than boring old Helheim, anyway. So Denmark looked back at the boy with a puzzled expression.

When the smaller boy realized that his tormentor-who-was-and-to-be would never be enlightened about the pitfalls of Hell, and that his attempts of acting like a threat wouldn't help him (or loosen up the rope), the boy furrowed his thick eyebrows and glared into Denmark's eyes, who was caught by surprise by the intensity written all over the younger boys face.

Not one to leave his losses behind, Denmark glared back, straining his slightly puffy face to make himself look even more intimidating.

Didn't change a damn thing. Denmark wondered if he should mention that the boy's face might freeze if he kept it all ugly-looking like that. Not like he was going to acknowledge that it would happen to him, too, at this rate.

No. This brat started a contest, and it was up to Denmark, the young viking prince of the North Sea, to remind him who won these contests. And winners don't have ugly eyebrows.

Not bad. "Winners don't have ugly eyebrows." Denmark would have to share with Norway and Sweden about their new motto after he was done with this annoying kid. Who had ugly eyebrows.

And as Denmark had established to himself earlier on, winners don't have ugly eyebrows.

So why was ugly-eyebrows-kid winning now? Denmark could feel his eyelids twitch and his neck get stiff, and it was clear that he wouldn't let for very long.

There had to be a way to win.

Anyway, really.

Good ways. Bad ways. Silly ways. Desperate ways.

A few more minutes into the staring contest, Denmark decided on the last action, and while the younger boy tried to dig into Denmark's soul with his stare, Denmark reached for the small, though slightly heavy knife he had on him and waited for that _right moment._

Four minutes later, that right moment came.

One minute later, and Denmark was swinging his knife out towards to smaller boy's stomach.

A few seconds later, the boy's expression snapped from a determined anger to a helpless fear.

It was done. Denmark had won. This would be over in a—

Five minutes later, soft footsteps limped away and Denmark was left standing at the foot of a trunk and broken rope.

So close.

Again.

And again.

He couldn't do it.

He could never figure out why he always let the boy go.


End file.
